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Jean Gray

Once every few months
The dreaded storm approaches
Too close for comfort
A little too personal
Keeping within itself
Some pages, no leaves
And purposefully dramatic
Sarcasm, derision, and no blood

Evading a touch, spark
All it can
Flummox, Confusticate, Maraud
Even help a stranger
To keep the legend alive
Strike just the one
And the perfect exhibition
Of prolonged lightheartedness

At first glance
Self-obsessed, narcissistic, not alone
At second glance
Brooding, Baleful, still not alone

I see a girl inside
Deep inside
Maybe she isn't there
But I see her
And what now?
How I always know to stay away
Yet prove to all that I knew nothing to begin with...
(More to follow)


παρεξηγημένος (Misunderstood)

The tale is of Theophylaktos and an ineffable beauty, feared by those who stick to surfaces and revered by the peoples of old. The situations are self-descriptive and modicums are not dwelled into. With that, I proceed.

Theophylaktos (guarded by God) is drowning. He is told to not move too much and just let water guide him to the inevitable fate that lay ahead. He hesitates, wanting not to be duped. At a later time, and with no foreseeable choice, he submits himself to the mercy and whims of the river Bisaltes. Known to be an ancient mighty river, he knew not of its connexion with the Aegean. At that moment, it seemed to him that he was entrapped, and Bisaltes was but a herald of the dreaded Styx. There came to him a vision, none other than The Watcher himself. He opened Theophylaktos’ eyes to the beauty that lay before his very senses, and all around him.

Thence came a realization. He saw the deer and peoples living in harmony, propounding to him that relish waits ahead. It was the perfect day for hunting, but no one there would feed on the other kind’s life. It occurred to him that all knew him by his name. He began to revel, to float and become stable. In time, he would glide over and above the mighty and pitiful Bisaltes.

He rose to the banks, his heart lightened by the beautiful smile on people’s faces. He rode on the back of deer, drank milk and basked in this shared affluence; and just when he was about to lie down on the wet and glowing grass, he saw a woman.

Unlike all others, no light emanated from her body. Her posture symbolized wounds of a strife and glory-taken-away. Yet, her beauty was above all, even with the realization that he hadn’t seen her face still. He went to her at once; and intending to kiss her and bring joy to one another, he grabs her by the hip, and puts his fingers in her golden hair. She turns back and looks at him. He took a great bow and then looked up, straight on her.

It was Medusa.


February 17, 2011

There are times, a lot of those, when I get disappointed and cut myself off from some people whom I know; if only it was more evident that a blog isn’t without a cause. In layman terms, this is the place that I choose to get away at.

Distracting myself from the crux of the moment for a bit, the Java update popped on top of all my windows and to my face. Well, its not 3D but its good enough to be exaggerated. Anyway, coming back to the point, if one had ever had the time to go through my earlier posts, one would know that I am very affirmative and inclined to some of my greatest likes. One among them is well above others on my priority list. That something is Football Club Barcelona with Xavier Hernandez Creus, Lionel Messi, Gerard Pique, Andres Iniesta, Carles Puyol as an integral part to mention a few.

Sometomes, I wonder why I like them the amount that I do. The problem with the excessive amount of inclination towards them is that one tends to expect the highest standards for one’s own sake; after all, no matter how much I shout about my passion towards anything, one would care the most about themselves and their ego and all that. Drat! My sentences are really very long and obfuscated. Also, one aspect that I like to stick to, is to not get carried away with emotions and heat of the moment(s).

With that in mind, I say no more. Let the untold speak for itself, or not. I hope that I don’t indulge in writing getaway anecdotes like this anymore. The form of speech/writing is highly cliche’d; and so is the word itself. Have a good night.